


Maybe we're just dreaming

by HellNHighHeels



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: But with a happy ending, Character death? kinda, F/M, a human au where they keep invading each others dreams, rated T for tears because you're probably going to cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 00:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14225529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellNHighHeels/pseuds/HellNHighHeels
Summary: She’s standing on a rooftop, gazing out over a skyline she’s never seen. London by the looks of it. It’s hardly the setting of her usual dreams, no dust covered runes or tombs just begging to be explored. The urge to run doesn’t make her bones itch. In fact, she feels almost tranquil, at peace in a way she hardly ever is in big cities. River shuts hers eyes, letting the night breeze kiss her cheeks and tangle her curls.“You’re on my roof,” a Scottish voice scowls, mouth half full of food. River turns in time to see the door to the roof slam shut behind a wild haired grouch of a man holding a basket of fried food.“Funny,” River quips, resting an indignant hand on her hip. “I seem to have gotten here first.”





	Maybe we're just dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [this ](http://whenyourunwiththedoctor.tumblr.com/post/172578059464/doctorriver-tttw-quotes-2018-edition)lovely set made by [whenyourunwiththedoctor.](http://whenyourunwiththedoctor.tumblr.com/)
> 
> It began as just tag ramblings and somehow spiraled into this. I'm sorry.

“People think dreams aren't real just because they aren't made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.” -Neil Gaiman

 

* * *

 

She’s standing on a rooftop, gazing out over a skyline she’s never seen. London by the looks of it. It’s hardly the setting of her usual dreams, no dust covered runes or tombs just begging to be explored. The urge to run doesn’t make her bones itch. In fact, she feels almost tranquil, at peace in a way she hardly ever is in big cities. River shuts her eyes, letting the night breeze kiss her cheeks and tangle her curls.

 

“You’re on my roof,” a Scottish voice scowls, mouth half full of food. River turns in time to see the door to the roof slam shut behind a wild haired grouch of a man holding a basket of fried food.

 

“Funny,” River quips, resting an indignant hand on her hip. “I seem to have gotten here first.”

 

His eyes narrow and River almost laughs. Disdain isn’t the usual response she warrants from strange men in her dreams. Then again, her imagination usually does a little better than thin, pasty, and Scottish. But she’s the adventurous sort, so she’ll try anything once.

 

“Are you going to stare at me all night or are you going to share those chips?”

 

“Get your own food,” he complains. His grip tightens defensively around his midnight snack, but he steps closer, taking a seat on the ledge of the building.

 

River tsks, a sway in her hips as she slinks in beside him. “That’s no way to make friends.”

 

“You’re not my friend. You’re a figment of my imagination.”

 

“Well in that case..” River muses, taking a moment to concentrate before a glass of red wine appears in her hand.

 

The man beside her nearly chokes, spluttering and hitting his chest as he gapes, “How’d you do that?”

 

“Ever heard of lucid dreaming?” River winks, taking a long appreciative sip. He watches her as she swallows and she’d be lying if she said his unabashed bewilderment didn’t amuse her.

 

“So,” he starts, managing to sound both effortless and curious. “What are you doing in my dream?”

 

“Who says it’s yours?” River counters, two quick fingers reaching out to snag one of his chips. “Maybe it’s mine.”

 

The man beside her narrows his eyes but offers no protests, only mild grumbling and, “This is my rooftop.”

 

“Funny place to live,” River observes, smirking around her glass as the bitter sweet taste of Merlot slips between her lips.

 

“I’m a _teacher_. My office is just downstairs.”

 

“What do you teach?”

 

“You’re the figment of my imagination. You tell me.”

 

She studies him, humming. “Judging by your hair and that cheap suit, it’s got to be science. Am I right?”

 

 “Nothing wrong with my hair.” He glares at her across the dimly lit rooftop and River can’t help but notice how his wiry curls seem to bristle of their own accord.

 

“So I’m wrong, then?” She helps herself to another one of his chips, eyes bright and knowing.

 

“Physics,” he admits begrudgingly and River grins as she bites into her stolen snack. “What do you do?”

 

“I’m an archaeologist.” River states proudly and now it’s his turn to scoff.

 

“I was wrong. This isn’t my dream. It’s my nightmare.” The man beside her rolls his eyes, his thick brow climbing his forehead. “I can barely suffer you lot in person. Much less in my subconscious.”

 

River leans in closer until his smug smirk is replaced by wide, wary eyes. A smile that looks more sinful than sweet stretches her lips, the smell of salt and vinegar pervading her senses as she coos, “Hate to break it to you honey, but you aren’t exactly the sort I dream about either.”

 

The man beside her snorts, “As if you could do better.”

 

River gives a contemplative hum. “I’ll have to let you know.” She shrugs and when he turns curious eyes on her, River smirks and explains, “I’ve only seen your face.”

 

The man beside her says nothing, but she doesn’t miss the way his lip curls in the corner, cheeks curving upward in a mischievous grin. She rather likes his smile, crooked though it may be, and when she’s had her fill of his Scottish sass, she presses a kiss to his cheek, steals the last bite of his midnight snack, and dives off the rooftop. 

 

——

 

She wakes up in her tent, feeling rested despite the lumpy cot and secondhand sheets. The first hint of sunrise has just begun to kiss the horizon, desert sand bursting to life in rippling gold. Her dreams were pleasant ones, she knows that much, but the details are fuzzy, far away, dancing like heatwaves over baking sand. River chalks the warmth in her chest up to excitement about a new dig, and as she gathers her things, she can’t help but notice that her smiling mouth has a craving for fish and chips.

 

——

 

 They keep meeting like this, sometimes in his dreams and others in hers. They explore the pyramids she’s excavating and picnic on the quad outside his office. He tells her his name on a pier along the Brighton coast, but it’s another two weeks before she tells him hers. She dances across the edges of the Grand Canyon like she’s not afraid of death, like the rules of gravity are just a plaything. And he supposed, in here, they are. But her movements are so practiced, so effortless, he’s willing to bet she tempts the laws of physics no matter her realm of existence.

 

She skips a little too close to a less than stable rock and he feels his body tense, wanting to reach for her.

 

“Stop fussing,” she muses, not even looking at him. “I have to be up in a few minutes anyway.”

 

“I’m not fussing,” he grumbles, arms folding across his chest to keep them from straying. “You’re just reckless.”

 

River turns to him then, knowing and insufferable. “It’s a dream. I could sprout wings and fly if I wanted to.”

 

“Then why don’t you?”

 

“Because falling is much more fun.” The grin that splits her cheek is contagious and the slightest bit alarming.

 

He shakes off the fondness brewing in his chest, snorting as he says, “You’re mad, you know that?”

 

“Oh yes, certifiably so.” She winks at him over her shoulder and the rock beneath her feet wiggles. “But at least they’ll never say I was dull.”

 

There are many things he’d call her, mysterious, insufferable, shameless, but dull certainly wasn’t one of them. “What do they call you? Your friends, I mean.”

 

“Who’s asking?” He can't see her face, but he can tell by the cadence of her voice, she’s grinning.

 

“A friend, I hope.”

 

She turns to look at him, balancing on the balls of her feet, heels hovering over the edge. “River,” she says with a smile that’s more enigma than joy. Her arms stretch out to her sides and before he has the chance to ask if this makes them friends, she’s flying and falling and fading away.

 

——

 

She has a reoccurring nightmare, or at least it used to be before he wiggled his way into her subconscious. The children’s home she grew up in was never the most inviting place, but time seems to have only made the shadows grow longer, the walls more cage-like. She's as embarrassed as she is terrified, because nothing makes her feel more lost or broken than the room she once called hers.

 

John doesn't seem to mind. His sharp eyes trace the corners of her nightmares like it's a beast he knows all too well, and just when she's terrified his silence will devour her whole, he opens his mouth and says, “At least you had a window. I had to sleep outside if I wanted to see the stars."

 

It turns out he’s an orphan too. He conjures up the soup they ate every Wednesday and she recreates the bread she never failed to burn every time she attempted to make her own toast, and together they laugh about all the times they snuck out after dark just so they could see the Milky Way.

 

——

 

Some nights she never shows. John dreams of sand and relics anyway, wishing all along that she was there to explain what the carvings mean. But she isn’t, so he makes up his own story about the sun and moon and the miracle of an eclipse. 

 

She blames her absences on sleep schedules and time zones. He doesn’t believe her, but he doesn’t dare press the matter. They're on a mountain side with far too many places from which she could jump, and he doesn’t want her to go.

 

"Do you remember me when you wake up?" he asks instead.

 

 "Yes," she breathes. And the tremor in her voice tells him she’s lying about that too.

 

——

 

She dreams of a beach she’s never seen, ankle deep in water she's never bathed in, and tells him it's on her list of places she's promised herself she'll visit one day. 

 

"You've got the sand all wrong," John tells her, kicking off his shoes. He hates the feel of grit between his toes, but he wades out into the water with her anyway. Her green eyes are sharp as daggers as they watch him, curiosity furrowing her brow in a way that makes his insides flutter. Regretfully, he looks away from her and shuts his eyes, remembering the long ago day he visited this same ocean.

 

He knows he's been successful when he hears River gasp, the water a few degrees colder than a moment before as the sand beneath their feet morphs into tiny round pebbles and the skyline darkens to a swirling purple and pink sunset. When he opens his eyes, she's crying. A small single tear tracking down her cheeks.

 

She’s always wanted to be here and it’s a shame she won’t remember when she opens her eyes. 

 

——

 

His long fingers pluck at guitar strings like he’s writing a love letter in musical notes. “Ever wonder why this keeps happening to us?” he asks, eyes guarded by sunglasses but somehow she knows he’s looking at her.

 

River shrugs, studying the parts of him she finds the most fascinating, the curl of his wrist that’s always covered by a hoodie that’s just a little too long, the tips of his hair that defy the very subject he teaches, the twitch in his lips that makes her insides curl. “I’m still not sure you’re real.”

 

His gives the strings a deliberate strum, eyebrow quirking. “I could always prove it to you.”

 

River grins.

 

——

 

They have their first kiss in a jungle near one of her ruins. A waterfall can be heard in the distance and when he brushes the hair from her flushed cheeks he murmurs, "I wish I’d met you in the real world."

 

She smiles back at him, a shrug in her shoulders as she says, "Maybe we already have."

 

He doesn't say it aloud, but he knows they haven't. Asleep or awake, he'd know her voice anywhere, and he would, always, _always_ , see her.

 

——

 

“Why am I not surprised?” He finds himself standing in a jail cell, River lounged across a small cot in nothing but an oversized coat. A devious grin is etched across her mouth and it only grows wider at the sound of his voice.

 

“You say that like having a record is a bad thing.”

 

“Quite the contrary,” he sing-songs, sliding next to her on the cot and placing her feet on his lap. “Love a bad girl, me.”

 

River's grin softens, humming. “You’re just in time.”

 

“For what?”

 

She pulls a pin out from her mess of curls and says, “My escape plan.”

 

She picks the lock effortlessly and he wonders if she’s just as good at it in the real world as she is here. He bets that she is. She insists on driving them into the sunset like Bonnie and Clyde, and her laughter is so mad and free, he forgets to ask how she wound up there in the first place.

 

——

 

He daydreams sometimes, usually in faculty meetings when his mind wanders to more interesting things. He finds himself in a maze, corn stalks three meters high. A voice calls for him, the cadence of it familiar in ways he can’t explain. He tries to follow it, to chase the sound of his name. But he never quite finds it, always ripped back to reality before he can discover the source.

 

——

 

On the rare days she finds herself in the city, River seeks out abandoned places. She enjoys the solitude of condemned buildings and sky scrapers under construction. Tonight, a cool night breeze rustles clear plastic as she doodles in her diary. She sketches a man she’s never met. Tall and lean with hair as wild as she imagines his spirit is. She gives him eyes that are old yet kind and a furrowed brow that looks more like a smile than a frown. Sleep pricks at the back of her eyes and the last thing she draws before she closes her diary and heads for home, is the crooked tilt of his lips and the curl in his cheek.

 

——

 

They're sitting in a diner he dreamed up when she tells him she’s in London, has been for a week now. "Why didn’t you tell me sooner?" he sputters, offense or anger on the fringes of his voice. "I would have-"

 

"You’d what?" River interrupts him, words cutting even as sadness lingers in her eyes. 

 

 _Find you_  burns like fire in his throat but he swallows it back, the knowledge that he can’t settling in his belly like a stone. He reaches his hand across the table until their fingers entwine, his thumb stroking over her pulse point. It doesn't seem fair that all this is only happening in his mind, that he’s deprived of her when he wakes. She’s so warm and soft against his skin, he can’t help but feel like she’s the only thing that's real and it’s everything else that’s the dream. 

 

——

 

The students are in a tizzy at his university today. Something about a lecture given by a renowned archaeologist. A pompous stuffy fat man no doubt, and John scoffs, choosing to spend the day in his office instead. Mostly, he grades paper, but the afternoon brings with it thunderstorms, and the sound of softly tapping rain lures him to the window. Out on the quad, his eyes land on a woman. She’s found shelter from the weather, tucked beneath the branches of an oak tree. She has a mane of golden hair framing her shoulders, a book in her hand, and a basket at her side as she leans against the ancient trunk. He doesn’t know why, but he thinks of crumbling stone. Her eyes are far away, lost in thought. But somehow he just knows that she has the most beautiful smile. 

 

——

 

"I saw you!" he practically shouts. "Having a picnic beneath a tree."

 

River's face brightens and pales in the same moment because, "I leave tomorrow."

 

His pounding heart stops beating entirely and all he can think to say is, "Don’t go."

 

——

 

The ride to Heathrow seems longer than usual. Normally she can’t wait to be rid of the city, but there’s a sickness in her stomach this time. Like she’s forgotten something so _so_ important. But her passport is in her hand and her diary tucked safely in her bag. Everything else is replaceable so she pushes the feeling aside and mentally plans her next dig.

 

When she falls asleep on the plane, he isn’t there. Giving a lecture no doubt, and she’s almost glad of it because she knows the disappointment on his face will be too much to bear. 

 

——

 

"When will you be back?" he asks her as they swing side by side in the children’s park she used to get drunk in after dark when she was a teenager.

 

"Six months," she answers, whiskey on her breath and he vows then and there that she won’t slip through his fingers again.

 

There’s a cafe across from the Natural History Museum. She's mentioned it a few times, how she always goes there whenever she’s in the city. He spends his dreams thinking about it until his waking self makes a habit of it too. 

 

——

 

She has a few hours to kill before her appointment so she goes to her favorite cafe and settles in at a table near the window. With her diary and a cuppa close at hand, she watches strangers on the street as they pass. It isn't the faces she finds herself sketching, but rather a skyline she’s sure she’s never seen.

 

"This is my seat," a gruff voice startles her from her reverie, and River turns to find a grumpy looking man with mad scientist hair looming over her.

 

"Funny that," she arches a brow. "I seem to be the one sitting in it."

 

The scowl on his face bleeds into a knowing smirk. "I know you. You’re that archaeologist."

 

"Always nice to meet a fan," River sighs, flashing a tight lipped smile. 

 

"Hardly," the man before her snorts. "Waste of funding, the lot of you."

 

River's eyes widen, a retort hot on her tongue when-

 

"Is this seat taken?" he asks, pointing to the chair beside her.

 

“Yes," she snaps, but he sits down anyway. The audacity makes River bristle, but there’s something about him, something about that crooked grin contorting his cheeks that makes her ask, "Have we met before?"

 

"No. But you did give a lecture at my university." He reaches across to tap her drawing. "That’s the roof of my building. Didn't know anyone else knew how to get up there."

 

She doesn't and she hasn't and her brow is pinched, a bit uneasy, and all she can think to say is, "Why go see my lecture if you loathe archaeology?"

 

"I didn’t," he offers with a shake of his head. "You had a picnic outside my office window."

 

River's jaw slacks, remembering that day, the giant leaves and the pitter patter of water on pavement and how it made her miss the jungle, waterfalls and stone and the lips of someone she can never quite recall. 

 

"My name’s John," he says with a grin. 

 

She smiles back and for reasons she can’t explain her tongue tastes of salt and vinegar. They talk for an hour and he never once gets up to order a drink. When she finally asks him why, his smile fades.

 

"I'm waiting for something," he tells her.

 

"What?" she asks, and she regrets it as soon as the question leaves her lips, because his eyes break from hers, suddenly lost and alone.

 

"I’m not sure."

 

——

 

She’s cross with him today, more cross than he's ever seen her, and he can’t for the life of him figure out why. "Is this about those archaeologist comments, because if-"

 

"No," River snaps. 

 

"Then what’s the matter?"

 

"Just drop it, John." She won’t even look at him. Eyes glaring daggers into the sandy ruins around them as if she’s cursing them for being flat, like she’s longing for a cliff or a roofline she can leap from just to be rid of him. But he’s a stubborn old man so he follows after like a dog demanding a treat.

 

"I found you. Aren’t you the least bit excited?"

 

"Yes," she huffs, then she shakes her head, eyes wet with angry tears. "No. I.. I don’t know."

 

John feels his chest constrict, a stinging in his heart because how could she not know? This is what they’ve been waiting for, _hoping_ for, and it’s finally happened. "What do you mean you _don’t know_?" he practically snarls, stepping in front of her, blocking her path.

 

River’s green eyes lock onto his with all the fury of a hurricane. "Let me pass, John." She’s dangerous, like a star on the brink of nova.

 

He holds his ground anyway, trying to keep his voice even as he declares, "No." With a huff, she makes to step past him but he’s quicker, stopping her in her path. "Talk to me, River," he pleads, and he isn’t sure what he expects, a confession or tears or some form of explanation. But all he gets is a soft but lethal-

 

"You never know when to stop, do you?" Her eyes find his and the sadness he finds there nearly steals his breath. "You just had to _push,_ didn’t you?" She jabs her finger into his chest so hard he stumbles back. "You just had to find me. You couldn’t let this be enough."

 

"Enough?" he flounders. "Of course I wanted to find-"

 

"Maybe I didn’t want to be found!" She fumes, chest heaving, tears threatening to spill over. 

 

His voice is caught somewhere in his throat, lodged behind something thick and heavy, choking him until he finally manages to whisper, "How can you say that?"

 

"It doesn’t matter," she sighs, stepping past him. 

 

"Like hell it doesn’t matter," John snaps, fingers curling around her wrist. 

 

"Let me go."

 

She tries to jerk away but his grip is as tight as his voice is desperate as he shouts, "River I-"

 

"Don’t!"

 

Her voice cracks like a whip, but it's already on his lips and he can't stop the words, "Love you."

 

But River's free hand is already flying. Her eyes wide and feral and afraid as her palm collides with his cheek. 

 

——

 

He wakes up in a cold sweat, his heart is racing as he lifts a hand to his cheek. He doesn’t know why but he feels like the flesh ought to be burning.  

 

——

 

A week goes by, and he doesn't know how she does it, but she doesn't join him in dreams. Later she'll tell him time zones are to blame, but he knows the truth. She's avoiding him. There's something she's not telling him and for the life of him he can't figure out what or why.

 

——

 

The university invited her back. She was in town anyway, so River figured, what the hell. Although, had she known parking would be impossible, she might have reconsidered. She's been circling the lot for nearly twenty minutes when she sees it, a space that reads _Reserved for John Smith Phd, Physics Department._

 

A grin curls her cheeks, and she pulls into the space.

 

——

 

He knows it's hers. Who else would have a trowel and a replica- he hopes it's a replica, anyway- of a human head in their front seat. He finds her in the main lecture hall and storms through the doors like a martyr on a holy mission. Two hundred pairs of eyes snap to him, but his are fixed firmly on the stage and smirking woman bathed in florescent lights.

 

“Well hello to you, too,” River flashes a smile with a feral amount of teeth. 

 

"You stole my space," he declares, ignoring her greeting.

 

River blinks back at him sweetly across the crowded room. "Is it really yours if I got there first?"

 

" _Yes_ ," he grits his teeth, stalking down the aisle toward her.

 

Her eyes watch him as he approaches, like he's one of her runes she can dust and decipher. It makes him itch, a feeling only made worse when she hums and says, "Well you'll just have to wait, honey. I'm a bit busy, if you hadn't noticed."

 

"No," he snaps, leaping up onto the stage, heedless of the hushed voices sweeping across the audience. "You're going to move it. Now."

 

River's brow quirks, the smile stretched across her lips nothing short of devious. "Oh? And I suppose you're going to make me, are you?"

 

"Yes," he nods, but it sounds feeble even to his own ears. Without his permission, his bluster has receded to a fond exasperation. It's hard to be cross when he's gazing into sparkling green eyes.

 

River leans in close, all mirth and trouble as she challenges, "Go on then."

 

Their eyes lock for a moment, studying one another. John sets his jaw, determination and pride creasing his brow as he scoops River off her feet. Some students gasp and other cheer, but River just throws her head back and cackles, allowing him to carry her back to her car.

 

——

 

He's stronger than he looks, hardly even out of breath when he sets her down in the carpark. She isn't usually one to swoon, but when her feet hit the pavement, her knees go a little weak. John steadies her, and she must look as pale as she feels because he cracks no jokes about fair maidens or knights in shining armour.

 

 "Are you alright?" is all he asks, but his voice is far away, murky, like she's floating out to sea.

 

She means to swat at him but she clutches at his chest instead, her vision going black as she collapses into his arms.

 

——

 

He can’t help but feel responsible. He’s been known to be quite cantankerous at times, but he’s never caused anyone to lose consciousness before.  The hospital smells synthetic and far too clean and the chirping of machinery fills the air in a depressing, methodic chorus. There’s no windows on her walls, but when she opens her eyes, he swears sunlight fills the room.

 

Her gaze doesn’t examine her surroundings. She doesn’t ask where she is, doesn’t even look confused. Instead, her eyes fix on him and a dry voice does it’s best to purr, “I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

 

“I guess we’re both full of surprises," he counters and River gives a contemplative hum.

 

“Where’s my car?”

 

Green eyes study him until he sighs and says, “Still in my space.”

 

River bites back a smirk, entirely too smug as she lifts her chin. “You didn’t have me towed, then?”

 

“No,” he chuckles. “And if you plan on suing me, you should know that I’m poor.”

 

A throaty laugh bubbles out from between her cracked lips. ”Don’t worry," she eases his mind only to smirk and add, “I’m more of a blackmail girl, myself."

 

“Not sure what you’d want from an old man like me,” he muses.

 

Her gaze roams over him until his skin itches, a hum in her voice as she sigh, “Oh, I don’t know. I could think of a few things.”

 

The mischief in her eyes robs him of breath. It’s only after silence settles in that the words, “I’m sorry,” claw their way up his throat and out between his lips.

 

The light in her smile dims a bit, but she hides her sadness well, swatting at the air dismissively. “This wasn’t your fault. I was a lost cause long before you got your hands on me John Smith.”

 

She offers him a wink, but her cheap diversions permeate the air until something bitter rattles in his chest. “Will you tell me?” He asks softly. “What’s wrong?”

 

Her shoulders stiffen and her jaw clenches like any sign of vulnerability will only make the disease ravage her faster.

 

“Please,” he breathes, before she can wall herself off completely.

 

River studies him for a moment, his hands, his hair, his mouth, and then she lets out a deep sigh and surrenders.

 

——

 

It's another few days before she meets him in his dreams, and when she finally does, he’s furious and thrilled all in the same moment. He wraps her in a hug that's sure to bruise, or at least it would do if any of this were real. "Why didn't you tell me?" he mumbles into her hair.

 

Her arms fold around him, but not as tight, as she whispers, "How could I?"

 

John pulls away, just enough to see her eyes. "I would have… done something. Found you sooner!"

 

"Damnit John! You're not listening." The anger in her voice is frayed at the edges, giving way to something far worse.

 

“Then tell me again,” he pleads. “Because I don’t know what to do anymore.”

 

"I didn't want you to find me, because-“ her voice cracks and she has to look away, swallowing hard. "Because I didn't want you to mourn me."  A long sigh falls from her lips and fills the empty space between them. "I don’t want you to watch me die, John. Not out there. And certainly not in here."

 

——

 

He should be bitter at the fact that she was never going to tell him. She was just going to leave him here to wonder what happened to her, if she was ever coming back, if all along she was just a dream too good to be true. He should hate her a little bit for that, but it’s not her fault she’s leaving him, and there was only ever enough room in his heart to love her anyway.

 

——

 

She’s been grounded to London, doctor’s orders. She’s out of the hospital now, but after her last episode, they want to keep an eye on her. “Stay with a friend,” they said. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

 

John gave her his number. She doubts she'll call.

  

 ——

 

She stands in front of the mirror, medicine in hand. A look of disdain has contorted the corners of her smile because she hates this stuff. She always wakes up tired, unrested and uneasy. She can't explain it, but some nights she's overcome with the urge to stop taking it altogether. Sometimes she gives in.

 

The smile already returning to her face, River pours tonight's dose down the drain and curls into bed.

 

——

 

She's gone more often than not, leaving him alone on park benches and under waterfalls and picnics in the quad. He asks her about it one day, when they're sitting by the sea in a house they pieced together with both their imaginations. The wind stirs her reddish curls, guilt and exhaustion written in the creases around her eyes. "I sleep better when I don’t take it," she confesses.

 

"Why is that?" he asks softly, tracing the pads of his fingers along her forearm.

 

Her eyes find his, green enough to make the sea herself jealous. "Because I see you, of course."

 

"And when you do take your medicine?"

 

Her smile slips, and when she looks away, it's all the answer he needs.

 

——

 

They’re sitting on the quad beneath the oak tree. It’s raining and it feels like the spray of the waterfall where they shared their first kiss. It’s quiet like the day she ate lunch alone and he watched her from his office window. He’s sitting right next to her now, hair as disheveled as it is when they meet in the day. It's hard to know what's real sometimes. It all makes sense when she's asleep, but then she wakes up and that makes sense, too. She prefers the dream world, when she’s healthy and knows he’ll always be here.

 

It was easier before she knew he was real, when she thought he was a figment she conjured. She could love him in her dreams and leave him in the day and no one would ever get hurt. But now that he's found her, in the real world, it will be harder to forget her. Maybe he'll go back to dreaming like he used to before their lives intertwined. Maybe his subconscious will dream up a new her. Maybe then he can fix her the way he did the beach she longed to see.

 

——

 

She has another episode, collapsed in the middle of the street by her favorite cafe. They say she made the news, caused a traffic jam that stopped half of London’s commuters. The ambulance couldn't get to her, but one of the café regulars carried her to hospital instead. No one got his name, but she has the funniest feeling she knows who it was.

 

——

 

She calls him at night. It feels like the best time to do it, though she isn’t sure why. He answers like he’s expecting her and when she says, “It’s River,” she hears him smile through the phone.

 

——

 

He’s sat on a swing in the playground she showed him, but it’s never the same when she’s not here. The screeching of the gate isn’t quite right and the whiskey isn’t as smokey as the one she conjures.

 

It’s subtle at first, the ringing, but it gets louder the longer he focuses on it, more familiar somehow. A phantom feeling in his pocket makes him gasp. His mobile, he realizes, digging fruitlessly through his coat. He can’t answer it, not here, and it might be nothing, but it might be her, seeking him out in the real world the way she used to find him in dreams. Frantic eyes scour the playground, searching for a way out. What would River do, he thinks? And the next think he knows, he’s teetering on the  edge of the Grand Canyon, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with heights as he closes his eyes and jumps.

 

 ——

 

He jolts awake, phone buzzing in his breast pocket. The number isn’t familiar, but somehow, he isn’t surprised when he hears her voice.

 

 ——

 

They put her in a long term room this time. Her feet itch and it's only day three. She hates being here, in a small room when she's used to sleeping under the stars. On the days John doesn’t come to see her, terrorizing the nurses and scandalizing the interns is her only source of entertainment.  A dark haired man with eyes like chocolate joking tells her that she's getting the good drugs. "They'll knock you right out," he assures her. "You won't even dream."

 

But it's no matter. She never remembers her dreams anyway.

 

——

 

She stops coming to their dream world altogether and if it weren't for his waking self, he'd wonder if she even existed at all.

 

——

 

He visits when he can, bringing along card games and snacks and things he's nicked off students who text in class. He plunders through the Archaeology section of the University library, stuffing anything he can find in his top pocket.  It'd be just as easy to check them out, but she always seems to smile brighter when he tells her it's stolen. 

 

"I spent the night in jail once," she confesses, but the admission sounds more like pride than it does plight. She laughs and spins a tale about the Mohave Desert and public indecency and never being able to turn down a dare.

 

He tells her the only criminal in that story is the officer who made her put on a coat.

 

——

 

It takes him longer than it should have to notice she never has any other guests. It's puzzling, a woman like her, who effortlessly charmed every doctor, nurse, and janitor in this place, surely she must have friends, lovers, colleagues, someone that would miss her. A nurse shrugs and tells him that she never told anyone she was here. She has no emergency contact, no next of kin. The truth hits John like a slap to the face. She doesn't have guests because she doesn't want them. She doesn't want their sympathy and sad eyes. She wants to live, to act like nothing's wrong. She wants to kick his arse at Poker and crack dirty jokes like making him blush is her life's ambition. Maybe that's why she lets him of all people in. She lets him see her like this because he keeps her mind busy. He lets her run. He lets her pretend. 

 

"You don't have to come here, you know." She chews her lip as she says it, and he smiles and tells her there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

 

——

 

He dreams of her favorite places. The playground. The ocean. The jungle. He can conjure wine and chips and anything and everything except the one thing his heart desires.

 

A dark thought sweeps across his mind, bitter and sweet because for the first time in a long time, he'd rather be awake than asleep.

 

——

 

"Do you believe in fate?" he asks, as casual as the stroll they make around the hospital ground.

 

River tilts her face toward the sun, drinking in its rays, her skin and hair growing more golden by the minute. "Are you asking if I believe in God?"

 

"No," he brushes the accusation away. They're both far too jaded to believe in magic or omniscient beings. "I'm asking if you believe some things are meant to be."

 

"I know that summer follows spring," she offers flippantly. "I know the sun rises in the East, so I suppose some things are fixed. But little things, like what we have for tea or who we share a cab with?" She inhales a contemplative breath before confessing, "No, that's free will."

 

"And meeting me?" he teases, keeping his voice light. "Am I a small thing?"

 

River chuckles, a playful twitch tugging at her mouth. "That was just bad luck."

 

"So you believe in luck?"

 

The enigma beside him lets out a heavy sigh, eyes forward. "I like to think we have some say in what we do, yes. Otherwise, what's the point?"

 

Lips that usually curl are pressed into a hard line, distant and just a bit desperate like faith in free will is something she needs, like she’s reckless and wild because the illusion of freedom is all she has. John hums, dropping the subject and letting her bury whatever dark thought it is she's trying to avoid. "I'm surprised they let you out again, after last time," he muses, and River finally turns to face him, biting back a wicked smile he knows all too well.

 

"New nurse," she coos, digging a set of stolen keys out of her gown pocket. "He doesn't know I'm a flight risk."

 

John dips his head to hide the way her brazen nature never fails to make his mouth curl. If Destiny were a thing to be written, he has no doubt that River Song would hold the pen.

 

——

 

Her favorite days are when he brings his guitar, mostly because it upsets the orderlies so. But he plays beautifully, long fingers dancing over strings like he’s composing a dream he can’t quite remember. He always wears his sunglasses when he plays, even though they’re inside, and she can’t help but wonder what it is about the music that makes him want to hide his eyes.

 

——

 

She's gotten paler, deprived of the desert sun she's always on about. Her hair isn't the mass of wild curls it was the first day he saw her in that café. It's softer now, redder, and he wishes more than anything he could have seen it fanned out behind her as she laid on the grass, staring up at the night sky. White rooms and hospital beds don’t suit her, and he decides right then to do something about it.

 

—— 

 

Much to her protests, he refuses to tell her where they're going. It can't be far. She's not allowed outside anymore, not after her most recent excursion. But the smirk on John's face is wide and his grip on her chair is tight as they ride the lift to the highest floor. He wheels her down a deserted hall, stopping in front of a dingy stairwell.

 

He holds his arms out like he means to carry her, expectant eyes tucked beneath bushy brows. River folds her arms across her chest and scoffs. "You can't be serious."  
 

"As a heart attack," he quips, then frowns. "Is it in bad taste to make that joke in a hospital?"

 

"Gallows humor or no," River protests, lifting herself out of her chair as gracefully as she can in her weakened state. "You are not carrying me up these steps like a bloody damsel in distre-"

 

Her complaints are cut short as John sweeps her off her feet. He's all calloused fingers and rolling eyes and she swears she hears him scoff the word _stubborn_ as he lifts her into his arms. She nestles into his chest and it feels just like the last time, like a room full of chattering students and rumors just waiting to take wing. She manages to glare at him anyway, fighting back the fondness even as she wraps her arm around his neck.

 

"I don’t need you to carry me, you know."

 

"Humor me," he smirks, adjusting his grip in a way that makes River squeak.

 

"Goodness, how many hands do you have?"

 

"Accident," he mutters. But his crooked grin tells her it was anything but.

 

"Oh, I'm not complaining," she coos, throaty and warm, making John chuckle.

 

"Down girl."  
 

"Why, afraid you can't keep up, old man?"

 

Her restless fingers toy with the hair at the nape of his neck and he smirks around the words, "You're a bloody menace, you know that?"

 

She means to speak, but her words are swallowed the moment they reach the rooftop. A blanket, a basket, and a bottle of red wine are sprawled across the concrete. Stars are just peeking out in the night sky and she isn't sure how he managed this, how he convinced the staff to let him steal her for an evening. It's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for her and yet when her eyes land on a daring green dress hanging from a stolen IV drip stand, all she can think to say is, "That had better be for you."

 

She doesn't put it on, but he does get her out of her gown. Her hands claw down his back and his tangle in her hair. Her nails don't dig as deep as they once would have and she gets the feeling his kisses are more gentle than he longs to be, but she has him and the stars and she couldn't ask for anything more perfect. Her pulse is faster than it ought to be, but she's free of wires and needles and chemicals in her veins, and when he growls her name in her ear, she swears she's more alive than she's felt in months.

 

They lie there for a long time after, the night air on her skin and her face tucked into his shoulder. They talk about their misspent youth. He tells her he's an orphan, just like her.

 

"I've been staring up at the Milky Way for as long as I can remember," he confesses, and River hums in understanding, her fingers making patterns with the freckles on his chest.

 

"Do you think there's anything out there?"

 

"Like aliens?" he asks and River snorts out a laugh.

 

"Or heaven," she offers, the heavy words too much for the fragile space between them. Neither of them speak for a long moment, and when she finally turns to face him, the way he's staring at her nearly steals her breath. He doesn't believe in heaven. She can tell by the lines around his mouth and how they droop downward whenever she casually mentions her own demise.

 

The silence stretches on, the stars reflected in his eyes as they gaze at one another. "I wish I met you sooner, River Song."

 

"Or in another life," she sighs, offering a fragile smile as his fingers lace with hers. She doesn't believe in heaven either, but his crooked grin comes pretty damn close.

 

——

 

It becomes tradition. He takes her to the rooftop every Friday night. Most times, she falls asleep on his shoulder. He kisses her forehead and he swears he hears her murmur his name.

 

——

 

She's on their beach. It's darker than it normally is, the sky more black than purple, like someone's turned off a light. Must be the traces of medication still lingering in her veins. She tries to fight it, to hold on until he joins her. She sinks into the sand, burying her feet, her eyes locked on the sky as she calls out his name.

 

——

 

They won't let him see her. She's gotten worse, practically overnight, her body rejecting her medication for reasons they can't explain.  He always knew this would happen, that she'd slip away. He thought he'd be ready.

 

He isn't.

 

——

 

He doesn't sleep, living on coffee and false hope as he waits by her bedside or paces the halls. "She's unresponsive," they tell him. "It's time to let go."

 

He stays until she flat lines, the chirping of machinery like the pendulum of a clock, slower and slower until there's nothing at all. But at least she looks peaceful, almost like she's dreaming.

 

It's hard to drive when he can't see. Eyes wet and the road dark. It's early or late or no time at all, but he couldn't stay a moment longer in that place if she wasn't there with him. He blinks back tears and exhaustion, salt on his tongue as the street lights pass. It tastes a bit like vinegar too, but it's just the exhaustion talking. He hasn't eaten in days. The sound of the car engine comes to him erratically, fading in and out, flickering like heat waves on desert sand. He doesn't know why he's thinking of the desert. Maybe because it's somewhere she liked to go. His eyes are heavy, and it's almost like he can hear her voice, like she's calling his name.

 

He lets out a tired sigh, the road before him only gets darker, the street lights blurrier, the wheel like smoke between his fingers.

 

——

 

The next thing he knows he’s waking up in a bed. There's sunlight on his face and the sound of ocean waves crashing softly against the shore.  He blinks into existence, taking in a deep breath of salt and honey and when his eyes finally focus, he finds River in the bed beside him. Her eyes are shut, a rogue curl falling over her face. He lifts a hand, gentle fingers brushing it back into place. Her cheeks are full and round and rosy, and she inhales at the touch, a smile plucking her lips. He waits patiently for her to open her eyes, and when they do, the gold around her irises catches the sunlight like sparkles on placid water.

 

"You're on my side of the bed," he scolds her, and River grins.

 

"I got here first," she quips. Her eyes haven't left him, as surprised and delighted to see him as his were to see this place, their place. She seems hesitant to touch him, scared he won't be real. He takes the leap for her, leaning in to plant a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. When he pulls away, her eyes are wet, her voice quiet, breathless, hopeful, as she asks, "Are we dreaming?"

 

His cheek curls into a crooked smile as he breathes, "Does it matter?"


End file.
